fv 


University  of  California 


. 

UNIVEF.  :r     iiNIA 

LIBRA 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIF. 
1    5    1921 


0CT  £  6  1931 


BOOKS  BY  MARY  R.  S.  ANDREWS 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
The  Eternal  Feminine.  Illustrated  net  $1.50 
August  First net  $1.00 

The  Eternal  Masculine.    Illustrated. 

net    $1.50 

The  Militants.    Illustrated   .    .    .  net  $1.50 

Bob  and  the  Quides.    Illustrated  net  $1.50 

Crosses  of  War net  .75 

Her  Country net  .50 

Old  Qlory net  .50 

The  Counsel  Assigned net  .50 

The  Courage  of  the  Commonplace  net  .50 

The  Lifted  Bandage net  .50 

The  Perfect  Tribute net  .50 


CROSSES   OF  WAR 


Somewhere  in  France 


[Page  13] 


CROSSES  OF  WAR 


BY 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 

Author  of  "  The  Perfect  Tribute,"  "  Her  Country,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1918 


COPTHIGHT,   1917,    1918,    BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEB'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

TO 
MY   GENTLEST  READER 

MARCIA   SHANKLAND   ANDREWS 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

A  GODSPEED 3 

VIGIL       ......'.........  4 

A  CALL  TO  ARMS 5 

^     FLOWER  OF  THE  LAND       . 8 

\ 

i     THE  BABY  AND  THE  BABY 10 

^     PLAYMATES 16 

v     CAMPING 17 

•wj 

i     AMERICA  VICTORIOUS 19 

*-     THE  BOY  IN  FRANCE   .  21 


CROSSES  OF  WAR 


A  GODSPEED 

GOD  speed  Old  Glory  when  she  takes  the  road  to  France ! 

Through  the  thundering  of  the  legions  where  the  bugles 
play  advance 

God  speak:    "The  fight  is  mine.     Carry  you  my  con 
quering  lance." 

God  speed  Old  Glory  on ! 

God  send  Old  Glory  first  and  foremost  in  the  fight! 
Fling  her  far,  O  God  of  battles,  in  the  van,  for  the  right. 
Lift  our  hearts  up  to  our  freedom's  flag  of  red-and-blue- 
and-white. 

God  fling  Old  Glory  far! 

God  guard  Old  Glory  clean  through  battle  grime  and 

sweat ! 
Consecrate  the  men  who  serve  her  so  that  none  may 

e'er  forget 

How  the  honor  of  the  colors  lies  within  his  keeping  yet. 
God  guard  Old  Glory  clean! 

God  bring  Old  Glory  home  in  honor,  might,  and  pride ! 
Battle-black   and   bullet-slashed   and   stripes   streaming 

wide, 

Gorgeous  with  the  memories  of  men  who  greatly  died— 
God  bring  Old  Glory  home! 


THE  VIGIL 

LIKE  some  young  squire  who  watched  his  armor  bright, 
Kneeling  upon  the  chapel  floor  all  night — 
Where  glimmering  candles  on  the  altar  glowed, 
And  moonlight  through  the  Gothic  windows  flowed — 
And  prayed,  with  folded  hands,  that  God  would  bless 
His  sword,  and  keep  him  true,  and  give  success — 
So,  kneeling,  Lord,  before  Thine  altar  light 
A  nation  asks  for  help  before  the  fight. 

Grant  us  the  prayer  of  that  boy  knight  of  old — 
Strength  to  be  steadfast,  courage  to  be  bold, 
Such  passionate  love  for  the  dear  flag  we  fly 
That  each  who  serves  it  holds  its  honor  high — 
Simple,  large  gifts  that  soldiers  need,  O,  Lord, 
Grant  the  young  nation  for  its  unsheathed  sword; 
And  for  our  captains  in  the  perilous  way 
A  vision  widened  to  an  unknown  day. 

We  keep  our  vigil;    send  to-morrow  glorious; 
Let  not  the  world  go  down;    bring  right  victorious. 
Kneeling  in  prayer  before  Thine  altar  light 
The  nation  asks  Thy  help  to  fight  Thy  fight. 


A  CALL  TO  ARMS 

In  memory  of  Captain  Philip  Killburn  Lighthall,  who  offered  to  his  country,  on 
the  deck  of  the  "  Tuscania,"  "  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion" 

IT  is  I,  America,  calling! 

Above  the  sound  of  rivers  falling, 

Above  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  chime  of  bells  in 

the  steeple 

— Wheels,  rolling  gold  into  the  palms  of  the  people, 
Bells  ringing  silverly  clear  and  slow 
To  church-going,  leisurely  steps  on  pavements  below — 
Above  all  familiar  sounds  of  the  life  of  a  nation 
I  shout  to  you  a  name. 
And  the  flame  of  that  name  is  sped 
Like  fire  into  hearts  where  blood  runs  red — 
The  hearts  of  the  land  burn  hot  to  the  land's  salvation 
As  I  call  across  the  long  miles,  as  I,  America,  call  to 

my  nation 

Tuscania  !     Tuscania  ! 
Americans,  remember  the  Tuscania  I 


Shall  we  not  remember  how  they  died 

In  their  young  courage  and  loyalty  and  pride, 

Our  boys — bright-eyed,  clean  lads  of  America's  breed, 

Hearts  of  gold,  limbs  of  steel,  flower  of  the  nation  indeed  ? 

How  they  tossed  their  years  to  be 

Into  icy  waters  of  a  winter  sea 

That  we  whom  they  loved — that  the  world  which  they 

loved  should  be  free? 
Ready,  ungrudging  they  went,  each  one  thinking,  likely, 

as  the  moment  was  come 
Of  the  dear,  starry  flag,  worth  dying  for,  and  then  of 

dear  faces  at  home; 
Going  down  in  good  order,  with  a  song  on  their  lips  of 

the  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave 
Till  each  young,  deep  voice  stopped,  under  the  rush  of 

a  wave. 
Was  it  like  that?    And  shall  their  memory  ever  grow 

pale? 

Not  ever,  till  the  stars  in  the  flag  of  America  fail. 
It  is  I,  America,  who  swear  it,  calling 
Over  the  sound  of  that  deep  ocean's  falling, 
Tuscania!     Tuscania! 
Arm,  arm,  Americans !    Remember  the  Tuscania! 


Very  peacefully  they  are  sleeping 

In  friendly  earth,  unmindful  of  a  nation's  weeping, 

And  the  kindly,  strange  folk  have  honored  the  long,  full 

graves,  we  know; 
And  the  mothers  know  that  their  boys  are  safe,  now,  from 

the  hurts  of  a  savage  foe; 

It  is  for  us  who  are  left  to  make  sure  and  plain 
That  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain; 
So  that  I,  America,  young  and  strong  and  not  afraid, 
I  set  my  face  across  that  sea  which  swallowed  the  bodies 

of  the  sons  I  made, 
I  set  my  eyes  on  the  still  faces  of  boys  washed  up  on  a 

distant  shore 
And  I  call  with  a  shout  to  my  own  to  end  this  horror 

f  orevermore ! 

In  the  boys'  names  I  call  a  name, 
And  the  nation  leaps  to  fire  in  its  flame 
And  my  sons  and  my  daughters  crowd,  eager  to  end  the 

shame — 

It  is  I,  America,  calling, 
Hoarse  with  the  roar  of  that  ocean  falling, 
Tuscania  !     Tuscania  I 
Arm,  arm,  Americans!    And  remember,  remember  the 

Tuscania! 


FLOWER  OF  THE  LAND 

THE  land  is  like  a  garden  with  a  blossoming  of  boys. 

All  across  a  continent,  from  the  wide  Atlantic's  boom 
ing. 

To  the  hoarse  Pacific  breakers,  shouting  deep   trium 
phant  noise; 

All  across  a  thousand  prairies;   from  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains'  looming; 

From  the  farms  and  from  the  cities,  out  of  villages  like 
toys 

Pour  the  boys! 

Everywhere — oh,  my  country,  everywhere 

The  flower  of  America  has  sprung  to  sudden  blooming. 

Steady   flowing,   never-ending,   never  heeding   rank   or 

races, 
Eager  faces  set  and  sober,  toward  the  cloud  of  battle 

lowering — 
Hear  the  swinging  of  battalions,  see  the  young,  unfear- 

ing  faces. 
Thousands    upon    crowding    thousands,    iron    muscles, 

steady  faces, 


8 


Out  of  snows  and  out  of  bayous,  out  of  fields  and  cities 
towering, 

Rich  and  poor,  from  lordly  mansions,  out  of  tiny  homes 
like  toys 

Stream  the  boys ! 

Everywhere — oh,  my  country,  everywhere 

The  harvest  of  the  land  we  love  has  ripened  to  its  flower 
ing. 

For  the  God  of  Hosts  has  lifted  up  our  soul  to  be  a  na 
tion; 

He  has  silenced  them  who  doubted  that  we  knew  his 
trumpet  voice; 

He  has  set  us  on  a  mountain  top  to  suffer  for  salvation, 

Has  crowned  us  and  has  cleaned  us  with  suffering  and 
salvation. 

And — to  answer  if  our  hearts  are  fixed  on  riches  and  on 
toys — 

Lord,  the  boys ! 

Not  for  gain — God  Almighty,  not  for  gaining 

We  are  offering  our  flowering  for  a  bulwark  to  crea 
tion — 

Lord — our  boys! 


SOMEWHERE  IN  AMERICA 

I  AM  The  Baby. 

I  own  this  room  and  everything  that's  in  sight. 

I  own  the  pink  blankets  and  all  the  pillows  and  this  brass 

crib  that's  so  shiny  and  bright. 
I'd  like  to  suck  the  crib,  but  I  can't,  because  it  doesn't 

come  close  to  my  mouth 
Like  bottles  and  woolly  blankets;    anyhow  it's  mine, 

east  to  west  and  north  to  south. 
That  couple  of  old  persons  around  twenty  who  refer  to 

themselves  as  "father"  and  "mother" — 
They're  mine,  too,  and  when  I'm  engaged  with  impor 
tant  thoughts  they're  a  bother. 
Yet  there's  a  dreamy  satisfaction  in  owning  them,  and 

in  seeing  them  make  fools  of  themselves  to  amuse  me. 
The  Person  in  Skirts  assures  me  often  that  nobody  shall 

abuse  me 
Because  I'm  her  owny-wowny  lamby-petty — I  wonder 

why  she  thinks  that  sort  of  asininity 
Is  appropriate  to  me,  fresh  from  the  stars  and  the  whirl 

of  infinity? 


10 


I  fix  her  with  a  cold  stare,  but  she  only  says:    "Look, 

Teddy ! 
He  acts  as  if  he  knew  us,  and  owned  us,  and  scorned  us 

already ! " 

Yet  I'm  getting  used  to  their  queer  games,  and  they  be 
gin  to  appeal  to  me. 
It  seems  it's  they  who  soak  me  in  pink  blankets  and 

adoration  and  every  day  deal  to  me 
Through  my  nurse  and  my  minions  in  general  the  sundry 

warm  bottles  and  such 
Which  are  the  real  facts  of  the  universe  and  please  me 

very  much. 
The  Person  in  Trousers — one  day  he  was  left  alone  with 

me 
And  I  stared  up  and  he  stared  down,  frowning  hard,  as  if 

he'd  pick  a  bone  with  me. 
So  after  a  while  I  remarked:    "Bh!"  and  he  laughed, 

and  he  said:    "You  little  cuss,    - 

Suppose  we  seize  this  chance  for  an  interview,  just  us." 
And  he  bent  over  my  crib  and  to  my  astonishment  lifted 

me, 
Though  I  knew  that,  after  he'd  once  gripped,  not  for 

worlds  would  he  have  shifted  me. 
But  he  got  me  up  safe  in  his  huge  claws,  and  held  me, 

and,  you  know,  it  was  nice, 
Though  his  hands  were  so  gentle  and  terrified,  they  were 

comfy,  and  strong  as  a  vise; 


11 


Then  he  looked  at  me,  very  much  as  the  Person  in  Skirts 

looks,  which  I  didn't  know  he  knew  how, 
And  he  whispered  straight  at  me:    "Little  cuss,  there's 

going  to  be  one  horrid  big  row 
If  you  don't  get  all  that's  coming  to  you,  love  and  care 

and  food  and  chances. 
If  you  don't,  it's  your  father  will  know  the  reason  why, 

and  such  are  the  circumstances." 

Then  he  laid  me  down,  as  if  I  were  trinitrotoluol  at  least, 
And  I  googled  up  at  him,  and  laughed,  much  like  a  fish 

at  a  feast. 
And  since  then  I  like  him  to  come,  and  to  touch  me, 

and  I  rather 
Am   inclined   to  consider  it's  a  good  asset  to  have  a 

father. 
Anyhow  he's  mine.     And  the  Person  in  Skirts,  which 

is  perhaps  the  best  thing  I  own,  she's  mine,  too. 
And  the  nurse,  and  the  half  nurse,  and  the  nursery  and 

— you  see  that  blue  silk  shoe? 

I  just  kicked  it  off — that's  mine;   I'd  so  like  it  to  chew. 
And  all  these  woolly  and  silk  things  lying  around, 
I  own  them  and  everything — the  Person  in  Skirts  said 

so — all  the  house  down  to  the  ground. 
I'm  fat  and  rosy  and  stuffed  and  pampered  and  happy, 

and  maybe 
There's  anything  you  can  think  of  better  to  be  than 

an  American  baby. 


II 

SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE 

I  am  The  Baby. 

The  Person  in  Skirts  that  I  own  says  it  that  way  when 

she  comes  home  at  night; 

She  says  it  in  French,  and  hugs  me,  and  then  for  a  min 
ute  I'm  warm,  and  things  seem  right, 
And  I  gurgle  and  goo  at  her,  but  soon  I  begin  to  whimper 

a  scrap, 
For  I've  been  cold  and  lonely  and  hungry  all  day,  and 

I  want  to  tell  her  about  it,  as  I  lie  in  her  lap. 
And  she  understands,  for  she  rubs  me  nicely  awhile,  and 

holds  me  close, 
And  then  she  puts  me  down  and  fusses  about  and  cooks 

me  the  nastiest  dose! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ?    Instead  of  a  warm  bottle  of 

milk,  white  and  delicious, 
She  boils  grass  and  such  stuff — yes,  she  does — in  water, 

and  I  hear  her  whispering:    "It  isn't  nutritious." 
And  she  feeds  it  to  me,  and  I  hate  it,  and  howl  and  kick 

and  squeal, 
And  then  she  cries  into  it,  and  I  get  tired — for  it  doesn't 

give  a  fellow  strength,  that  meal. 


15 


I  get  so  tired  I  can't  howl  or  kick  any  more,  and  so  I 

lie  still, 
And  make  a  small  whimpering  noise,   and  try  to  beg 

with  my  eyes  to  be  fed  my  fill — 
Which  is  what  a  baby's  entitled  to,  else  why  did  he 

have  to  come? 
Heaven  knows  I  didn't  ask  to  start  living  in  this  land 

of  gun  and  drum. 
So  the  Person  in  Skirts — she  says  she's  my  mother,  and 

she's  thin  and  sad  and  white — 
She  puts  me  to  bed  and  lies  down  beside  me,  but  neither 

of  us  sleeps  much  all  night/ 
Next  morning  she  kisses  me,  and  wraps  me  in  a  shawl, 

and  steals  out  of  the  door  and  away, 
And  then  I'm  alone,  and  vaguely  scared,  and  it  seems 

like  a  week  long,  all  day. 
Maybe  two  or  three  times  a  kind  person  comes  in  and 

takes  me  up  and  comforts  me  and  then  tries  to 

cram  down  me 
That  nasty  grass  tea,  till  I  wish  I  were  an  extra  puppy 

and  they'd  drown  me. 
I  really  can't  drink  that  stuff.     And  the  only  reason  I 

keep  on  going, 
Which  I  sometimes  think  is  a  mistake  in  a  country 

where  grass  tea  is  growing, 


14 


Is  because  I'm  glad,  nights,  when  the  Person  in  Skirts 

comes  back, 
And  also  because,  once  in  a  blue  moon,  there's  a  large, 

deep-voiced  Person  in  Black 
Called  the  Cure,  who  brings  me  real  milk — just  a  little, 

but  oh,  isn't  it  fine! 
And  when  I  see  it  coming,  warm  and  white,  I'm  in  such 

a  hurry  that  I  whimper  and  whine 
For  pure  joy,  and  the  Cure  smiles  a  bit,  watching  me,  and 

says  I'm  the  hope  of  France; 
But  how  can  a  chap  be  the  hope  of  France  when  he  can't 

get  enough  food  to  have  a  chance? 
And   the  Person   in   Skirts   whispers   things   about   my 

father,  whom  she  calls  her  lost  hero  so  sadly — 
Somehow  I've  gathered  that  a  father's  a  thing  that  gives 

babies  what  they  need  badly. 
I  wish  I  had  a  father.     If  I  couldn't  have  that,  then  I 

wish  some  other  babies'  fathers  would  give  me  a 

place  to  stay — 
A  warm,  light  place,  with  persons  in  it  while  the  Person 

in  Skirts  is  gone  all  day. 
And  maybe  they'd  let  me  have  some  food  that  wasn't  as 

bad  as  grass  tea. 
Do  you  think,  if  their  babies  have  plenty  and  some  left 

over,  the  other  babies'  fathers  would  do  that  for  me  ? 


PLAYMATES 

TIME  was  when  you  were  comrade  to  the  old, 
Friend  to  the  sorrowful,  grown  tired  of  breath; 

Now  all  the  buoyant  hearts  and  heads  of  gold 
Run  to  your  arms,  O  Death ! 

Time  was  when  you  could  terrify  the  bold, 

When  seasoned  warriors  shivered  at  your  breath; 

Now  boys  go  singing  down  into  the  cold 
Seas  where  you  wait  them,  Death ! 

Time  was  when  loss  and  grief  and  dust  and  mold 
Were  all  the  message  of  the  parting  breath; 

Now  youth  and  gladness  of  the  world  enrolled 
Laugh  through  your  veil,  O  Death! 

Time  was  life  seemed  at  end,  the  story  told 

When  the  dear  clay  was  emptied  of  dear  breath; 

Now  sudden  vision  lights  a  wisdom  old — 
Life  but  begins  with  death. 

O  grave,  how  may  your  ancient  victory  hold 

These  bright,  unconquered  ones,  careless  of  breath? 

O  playmate  Death,  whose  hand  they  rush  to  fold, 
Where  is  your  sting,  O  Death! 


16 


CAMPING 

QUEER — three  old  pals  like  you  and  Bill  and  me, 
Who've  camped  so  many  summer  moons  together, 
Should  get  our  camping  hah*  the  earth  apart, 
This  August  weather. 

Odd — when  our  tastes  are  very  much  alike, 
We've  picked  such  widely  different  situations 
— Though  Bill  and  I  have  hit  the  same  old  trail 
Among  the  hills  which  seem  like  close  relations. 

You  know  the  lake,  the  long,  low  house  of  logs; 
To  every  querying  leaf  you  know  the  answer 
In  light  and  shadow  on  these  forest  walls; 
You — off  in  France,  sir! 

You  know  the  AlUe  Verte,  the  Golden  Pool, 
The  sunny  sand-bar  where  your  moose  was  standing; 
You  know  the  way  the  boats  lie  up  the  bank 
Under  the  birch  and  alders  'round  the  landing. 

But  Bill  and  I  don't  even  know  the  town 
Where  "A.  E.  F."  means  You,  across  the  billow; 
Yet  know  it's  home — because  Old  Glory  waves 
Over  your  pillow. 


17 


A  gray  old  port  that  Julius  Caesar  saw; 
Transports  all  brown  with  singing  warriors,  hailing 
From  shores  that  Caesar  never  heard  of;    thus, — 
It's  all  I  know — imagination's  failing. 

I  picture  lines  of  barracks  on  a  hill— 

Or  is  it  in  a  valley?     Horses  tramping, 

Mighty  guns  rumbling,  regiments  at  drill, 

Hoarse  orders  shouted — is  that  like  your  camping? 

Ours  is  another  sort;    the  peaceful  days, 
The  smiling  mountains;    yet  at  any  minute 
We'd  leave  this  heaven  for  that  hell,  to  be 
With  you,  and  in  it. 

We  two  can't  fight.     Though  Bill,  at  fifty  odd, 
Hankers  to  be  an  Ace,  through  clouds  a-kiting; 
But  War  Departments  scorn  the  likes  of  us; 
F<m'll  do  our  fighting. 

We  think  it  safe  with  you;    we  think  You'll  win 
The  war,  and  personally  nab  the  Kaiser; 
Yet — only  come  back  home !    We'll  never  ask 
Medals  and  honors — just  your  lifted  visor. 

But  if  the  Great  Adventure  calls  you,  lad, 
Cutting  you  free  of  Life's  uncertain  tether, 
You'll  wait  a  while,  beyond,  for  Bill  and  me? — 
And  then,  sometime  again,  we'll  camp  together. 

18 


AMERICA  VICTORIOUS 

WE  shall  go  down  at  length  to  the  gates  of  the  sea, 
We  who  have  waited  and  watched  and  prayed  from  afar, 
To  welcome  our  fighting-men  who  have  made  earth  free, 
Our  boys,  home  from  the  war. 

Crowded  the  transports  there,  at  the  gates  of  the  sea, 
Pouring  out  rushing  figures,  khaki-clad, 
Men  roving  of  eye  in  the  search  for  you  and  for  me, 
Home  at  last,  and  very  glad. 

The  bands  shall  play  in  the  streets  of  the  gates  of  the 

sea, 

The  crowds  shall  cheer,  and  the  flags  shall  paint  the  sky, 
Wild  bells  shall  peal,  to  the  conquering  lines,  jubilee — 
But  some  shall  be  dim  of  eye. 

Oh  you,  standing  desolate  there  at  the  gates  of  the  sea, 
For  a  step  not  heard  in  the  marching  ranks,  and  a  face 
Whose  eager  smile  to  your  face  on  earth  cannot  be — 
Oh  you,  take  heart  of  grace! 

As  his  comrades  come  homeward  without  him  across 

the  sea — 

Guard  him  his  glory  of  gladness  in  ultimate  splendor, 
Render  them  honor  whole-hearted  and  smiling — as  he 
Would  have  rendered  them  honor,  so  render. 


19 


America  beloved !    Who  shall   stand   one  day  by  the 

sea 
Bright-faced   for  the  sons   who   come  to   the   meeting 

glorious, 
Wistful-eyed   for   the   voices   whose  greeting   may   not 

yet  be, 

Rejoice  for  your  shining  army  forever  free, 
America  beloved — victorious  ! 


THE  BOY  IN  FRANCE 

STEEPED  in  hot  haze  of  the  August  afternoon 
The  garden  dreams  in  a  many-splendored  trance; 
The  locusts  drone  a  long,  insistent  tune; 
And  the  boy — the  boy's  in  France. 

Down  the  stone  steps  the  rose-pink  phloxes  stand, 
Like  delicate  sculptures,  through  the  breathless  day, 
Brilliant  yet  shadowy,  as  the  bright,  vague  land; 
And  the  boy — the  boy's  away. 

The  dogs  about  the  terrace  listless  lie, 
Waiting  a  springing  step  they  used  to  know; 
We  wait,  we  also — and  the  days  crawl  by; 
The  boy — we  miss  him  so. 


Green  fields  reach  over  hills  to  fields  of  gold; 
Far  off  the  city  glitters,  gay  but  wan; 
The  radiant  scene  breathes  loneliness  untold; 
The  boy — the  boy  is  gone. 

Sudden  his  service  flag's  impetuous  story 
Flashes  a  bugle  note  across  the  flowers; 
Sudden  the  aching  loss  is  pride  and  glory; 
He  is  in  France — he's  ours ! 

Lad  of  my  heart!    From  all  across  your  land 
One  thought  wings  to  that  land  of  old  romance; 
One  proud  America  stretches  a  loving  hand 
To  the  boy — the  boy  in  France. 


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